


None the Wiser (the time eames let arthur play. again.)

by withlightning



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Restraints, Rimming, Sex Toys, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Umm. Eames gives Arthur a birthday present. Or, two, actually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None the Wiser (the time eames let arthur play. again.)

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes awesome things happens. Sometimes things like _these_ happen.
> 
> This whole porn is [Mel](http://knowmydark.livejournal.com/)'s fault. Completely. Also, [Em](http://mementis.livejournal.com/) is guilty of urging with, "But it was a ~good twitching!" I blame [Zeto](http://zeto.livejournal.com/), whom I've known for total of 48 hours, for trying to lure me into the ginger root trap. See, Z, what has been seen, cannot be unseen. Thanks a bunch.
> 
>  
> 
> And this is where IT begun; TWITTER.
> 
>  **MEL** : ahahaha, oh my god, guys. THIS IS - OH MY GOD THE PORN POSSIBILITIES. [(PICTURE)](http://oi53.tinypic.com/6z64k5.jpg)
> 
>  **FRIDA** : oh god now I see slutty and sweaty Eames on his knees, impatient to be fucked w/the dildogun and Arthur in shaky control. Unf.
> 
>  **MEL** : and Eames will be begging because Arthur's fingers just aren't enough and - unf, Eames tied to the bed, straining, unf
> 
>  **FRIDA** : and Arthur rimming Eames, teasing and Eames getting incoherent and finally pushing the dildo inside, slowly and Eames takes it.

("You bought me a gun. A dildogun," Arthur said frowning.

"I know how much you love those Glocks of yours. However, that's only half of your present," Eames said.

Arthur hummed and twisted the dildogun in his hand, tried the heaviness and admired the good polishing work. "And the other half would be?" Arthur asked, lifting his gaze from the round head of the dildo to Eames.

Eames grinned, jovially, and opening his arms he twirled around.

Arthur bit inside his cheek and thought about the possibilities.)

 

And that's how Arthur finds himself sitting on his knees, between Eames' legs. The CockGlock is lying on the sheets, next to the lube and Arthur is being patient here, so very patient. Same can't be said of Eames, whose hands are tied to the bed post and whose legs are shaking with want as Arthur teases his opening with one finger, gently drawing circles around the twitching hole. Eames is being quiet, too quiet, if you ask Arthur, but Arthur knows that won't last. It's only a matter of time before Eames will start pushing, verbally and physically.

Eames is breathing deeply, trying to control himself, Arthur knows -- Eames' knuckles are white from all the holding on, palms damp and sliding on the post and he's scrabbling for a better grip; his cock is full and heavy, straining to touch his taut stomach and the slope of his spine is glistening with sweat. It doesn't matter how many times Arthur has seen Eames like this, wanton and wanting and trying so hard not to give in; Arthur will never get enough of the feeling, of the rush, of Eames -- of Eames on his mercy, ready to take everything Arthur is willing to give him.

And Arthur will give. He'll give Eames what he needs, what they both need. He always does. They both know it.

So Arthur bends, gets a better position and makes a move to spread Eames' legs wider. Eames complies easily, so easily, knees shifting wider apart, waiting for Arthur's next move. He doesn't have to wait too long because Arthur takes a deep breath and dives in, spreads Eames' cheeks. Blowing out slowly a lungful of air he feels Eames trembling under his hands, fighting to stay still. Arthur can distinctively hear a low moan being stifled into the mattress and he can feel his heart speed up as his mouth is watering.

Arthur closes his eyes and licks a long, wet stripe from Eames' balls all the way to the small of his back and there's no other word than _quivering_ , Eames is quivering and pulling away from the touch. Arthur holds on tighter and repeats his motion, this time focusing on the tight ring, circling with his tongue and sucking the skin with wet slurps. He's making a mess, everything is wet and slick and he doesn't care because Eames is pushing back, is doing these unconscious aborted moves, as if fucking himself on Arthur's tongue and he's panting now, Arthur hears the heavy, heavy panting among all the slick sounds his mouth is making.

He pushes his tongue in, again and again, pushes deeper and Eames is moaning now, giving in like Arthur knew he would, moaning and trying to get more friction. Arthur holds onto Eames’ hips harder, guiding, bruising and Eames lets out a long-draw groan, body moving sinuously in the way Arthur wants. Licking and suckling, Eames starts loosen up in a delicious way; still tense but on his way to lose the control. To lose the control to Arthur, completely.

Arthur hums and lets go of one hip. His index finger finds its way next to his mouth and he sucks it in, wets it slick enough and gives one last push with his tongue before sitting back on his knees. Eames lets out a breath, trembling in anticipation and Arthur can’t help the small smile gracing his lips; Eames is gorgeous like this, gorgeous when he trusts Arthur implicitly, gorgeous when he’s messy and out of control, gorgeous when he can’t even form words, too far gone.

He eases his grip on Eames’ hip, fingerprint-shaped, red blotches left behind on Eames’ skin and he rubs the skin gently, smoothens the dents. Arthur loves Eames’ skin, loves how it’s both smooth and rough, just like Eames himself; it’s patterned with ink, marked with complicated swirls and meaningful words. Arthur loves the way his touch makes Eames melt, the way Eames trusts him, implicitly, with his body and with his mind – and most of all, Arthur loves the sounds he’s able to coax out of Eames; the whines, the moans, the delicious groans and incoherent slurs.

Pushing his spit-slick finger in, Eames gasps. Arthur’s finger gets sucked in, Eames squeezing down on the digit and god, Arthur’s hard – he’s so hard he’s aching, cock straining inside his jeans and he rocks his hips a little, just a little, and his eyes almost roll into his head with the tiniest friction. Eames, it’s all _Eames_ , and the way he wants Arthur, wants more, wants more of Arthur, and Arthur bites his lips as to not make a sound, because this isn’t about him as much as it’s about Eames, about what Eames is giving him. He intends to make this as good as he can, to give Eames something to remember.

Arthur draws his finger out and Eames gives out a distressed noise, trying to push back into the touch as far as his restrains allow him and Arthur gets his finger back in, all the way to the second knuckle. Eames moves his hips, rolls them as a hint for Arthur to go deeper, to curl his finger – and Eames moans, hard and long as Arthur finds the spot, rubbing. He withdraws and has to let go of Eames’ hip to wipe the sweat from his forehead, because he can’t see clearly, can’t see the way Eames’ back is bended, ass up in the air, shoulder blades prominent as he’s sagging under his own weight. Arthur stills his finger, deep inside and Eames tries to fuck himself on it, just like he did before Arthur’s finger replaced his tongue; just like he does when it’s Arthur’s cock inside the gripping heat – and Arthur has to touch himself, he has to do something—

And he does, he lowers his sweaty hand on his jeans, presses the heel of his palm against the front and holy fuck, the way his cock jumps under his own touch is embarrassing and heavenly at the same time and sparkles shoot from his gut to the tips of his fingers, to the tips of his toes and goose bumps of pleasure raise all over his skin. He presses again, curls his suddenly frozen fingers around the shape of the length as good as he can and _glides_ his palm on the worn cloth. Arthur gets as far as two strokes and he feels he’s about to come, thighs tensing and cock hurting. His heart is pounding madly under his ribcage and he moans, can’t help the sound—

“Are you—“ Eames manages, voice strangled high. “Oh god, you are, aren’t you?”

Arthur can’t answer, he can’t say anything, but he stops and claws his own thigh hard enough to bruise, hard enough to back from the edge. He breathes deeply and curls his finger inside of Eames again; the hole around clenching down vigorously.

“More,” Eames says. “Give me more, Arthur.”

Arthur’s close enough himself, so he quietly complies and blinks the sweat from his eyes. Opening the cap of the lube, he squirts a dollop on the top of his hand, smearing it on his middle finger the best he can – his hands are shaking and everything’s slick and smooth and hard and he adds the second digit, Eames moaning loud, giving into it, letting Arthur inside – and oh fuck, Arthur can _feel_ Eames bearing down on his cock, can envision it enough to feel the tightness around, the heat and the wetness and he closes his eyes, rocking his hips rapidly. The rough edge of the zipper burns on his cock and he’s close, oh, he’s so close and he can’t even think—

Eames groans as Arthur fucks him harder, with quicker strokes, fingers rigid now, and Eames is moving with him, they’re moving in a rhythm, slick sounds filling the room. “I can’t—“ Eames says brokenly and Arthur adds another finger when he pushes in, Eames’ hole gripping hard enough to grind the bones of his fingers together painfully. “Oh, oh. Oh fuck,” Eames slurs, almost sobbing and it’s hot, it’s so damn hot to see his long fingers disappearing into Eames’ body and come back shiny with lube, glistening and he pushes back in, Eames crumbling under his hands.

Arthur’s own hand is back on Eames’ hip, pads of his finger and nails digging into the soft skin and hard muscle and he’s holding on, he’s holding on in any way he can and when did him doing this to Eames turn into doing this to himself, too? It’s not part of the plan for _him_ to lose his head like this, it’s not – and yet, he can’t do anything to—to—

“ _Arthur—_ ” Eames whines, breathless, shaking all over and Arthur can’t deny him any longer. He withdraws his hand, Eames trying to follow and failing miserably and there’s another whine, wordless this time.

Arthur sits back and with an unsteady hand he takes the dildogun in his grip, the wood smooth and cold to the touch. He’s generous with the lube, drops of the clear liquid dripping on the sheets, on his jeans, leaving dark spots and he’s way beyond caring, way beyond caring about anything except making Eames come spectacularly.

Taking a deep breath, he says, as steady as he can, “Hold on.” And Eames holds on, hard, fists white around the bed post.

Eames’ cock is straining in the air, begging to be touched, lube-slicked balls taut above and Arthur knows, were he to touch Eames now, he’d come instantaneously. And yet, he can’t help himself and he drags one finger along the delicate side of Eames’ cock, nail scraping gently from the tip to the root, smearing a stripe of pre-come as he goes and Eames sobs into the pillow. “Don’t—don’t come yet,” Arthur half-whispers and carefully thumbs the slick head of Eames’ cock. Eames is so hard and hot under his shaking fingers and Arthur clenches down on the emptiness in his own ass, wanting, needing Eames inside him, hard and relentless and _perfect_.

What he does instead, is swallowing hard against the painful thud of his own cock and teases Eames’ opening with the head of the dildo. Eames trembles, muscles in his thighs straining to hold him up, sweat shining everywhere on his skin – even his hair is matted and almost black against the shape of his head. Arthur guides the dildo in and it sinks, sinks deep on the first thrust and Arthur twists it immediately and starts to thrust again, again, again.

It’s as if Eames is being electrocuted; his head snaps up and he _howls_ incoherent string or words, panting in between. Arthur wishes he could see Eames, could see his face; mouth open and eyes screwed shut in rapture, droplets of sweat clinging from his eyebrows, eyelashes; wishes he could see Eames’ throat working on and no sound coming out, ripped out of breath, ripped out of any higher brain-function, ripped out of any self-confidence – Arthur wishes he could see what he’s doing to Eames.

He fucks Eames harder with the dildogun, finger resting on the trigger as he rocks and twists the gun shamelessly, letting it slide out before forcing it back in – and Eames, Eames takes it all. Eames takes all the teasing and occasional cold shoulder Arthur gives him, takes all the jabs, all the verbal abuse, takes Arthur’s bad moods and good moods, never giving up on him, on them, always wanting more, good or bad – and Christ, Arthur doesn’t deserve Eames, he doesn’t—

“I’m going to, oh fuck, I’m—“ Eames slurs, vocals long-drawn and lazy and Arthur works a hand on Eames’ cock, strokes once, twice, twists the gun the right way and Eames gives out a harsh shout, back bending even more, curving gracefully and he’s coming, wailing as he spurts again and again, and Arthur keeps pumping, both hands working and Eames shivers with the force of his orgasm and oh god, he’s still coming, he’s still—

And Arthur sees sparks in his eyes, feels them in his body, spreading and eyes rolling it hits him; he’s coming too, and his vision blackens, his grip loosens on everything, loosens on Eames, loosens on reality and he’s high, flying high and he’s coming in his jeans, coming hard enough to lose all his breath and it feels _exquisite_ , feels magnificent—

“—Breathe,” Eames tells him, “Breathe, Arthur.”

He does, he breathes, steady exhales and inhales with an unsteady heartbeat. He finds himself sprawled on the bed, legs still shaking. The dildogun is right next to his face and he grimaces, pushing it further away. Lifting his head he blinks few times to get rid of the flying sparks in his vision and finds his cheek slick. He wipes at the mess; it’s the lube.

“Sometime today would be nice,” Eames says, voice fond, and rattles the bed post to make his point.

Arthur gets on his knees, the mess inside his jeans uncomfortable, cooling stickiness. “You should be so lucky,” he deadpans, “that I happen to like you.”

Eames chuckles and twists his back to look at Arthur. “The feeling’s mutual, love. Now, untie me, please.”

Arthur feigns disinterest, rolls his eyes and crawls disgracefully next to Eames’ head, starting to work on the knot. It takes him a while for his hands to coordinate and get the strip of the silk open. As soon as the knot loosens, Eames wiggles his hand through the loop and Arthur moves to the other side.

“So, how was that for a happy birthday?” Eames asks deviously, eyebrows damp and quirky.

Arthur frees Eames’ other hand and doesn’t bother to hide his smile. “It was happy enough. I’m only wondering what you’ll come up with next year.”

Eames laughs and rubs his wrists; there are red welts on both, skin looking angry and abused. Arthur takes one wrist in his hands and blows on the wound gently, soothingly. They’re quiet for a moment and then Eames twists his hand and laces their fingers together. “Hey,” Eames says quietly and lifts Arthur’s chin. Looking into his eyes, Eames says, “Don’t worry so much. I won’t be buying you a ginger root garden just yet.” Arthur bursts out laughing.


End file.
